


I do not shave for Sherlock Holmes

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Facial Shaving, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Humour, John gets even, John puts his foot down, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Shaving, toxic kitchen problems, who knew that shaving was a form of foreplay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 07:16:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3520262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short fic in which Sherlock ticks off John, who finds a whole new form of retaliation.  John's day begins like almost any other, with tea and the newspaper.  And because he is a nice guy, he fixes tea for Sherlock, who unfortunately doesn't notice it until it's too late.  Definitely too late.  No worries, it all ends rather well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I do not shave for Sherlock Holmes

In hindsight, John should never have done it. He should have known better. He should have played his cards better before it became the serious issue that it was about to become.

The morning had started without an inkling that anything was different. There was no sense of impending doom. The flat was a mess, merely evidence that Sherlock had been up for hours. The kitchen was ordinary, with detritus of the previous day's takeaway boxes, empty tea mugs, and a folder of experiment write-ups. Sherlock was at the kitchen table, peering intently at an array of slides with various others in stages of preparation, culture media at his elbow, and his laptop open to a spreadsheet full of symbols and numerals. There was some muttering, occasionally becoming excited, and as John brewed tea, he wasn't sure if his presence had been noted. The skull sat as a centerpiece, as intent as ever, and if anything, prone to listen. Plus, John had the eye-rolling expression down, which gave the skull a singular advantage when trying not to annoy Sherlock.

Out of rote, John placed Sherlock's tea at his side on the table and gathered the morning Mail. His shift at the clinic didn't start until noon, and he had been looking forward to a leisurely morning with little to do. Plus, Sherlock was typically entertaining, and if he could get his attention away from whatever his little chemistry endeavor was, the morning could pass very nicely indeed. Every now and again, the odd sleep habits of his flatmate plus his occasionally insatiable libido produced some marathon sexual experimentation at all hours. When they could find the time. Glancing at his watch, he figured Sherlock would be most vulnerable to needing a break in another hour or so. The tea and the newspaper both came to an end, and Sherlock finally looked up at him.

"Morning, sunshine," John said, an eyebrow raised at Sherlock's surprise to see him sitting there.

Blinking, he leaned back, stretching, and reached toward his tea then stopped suddenly, arm in mid-air. "John."

Something in the tone wasn't quite right.

He didn't pick up the tea, instead, he looked toward the kitchen, tea kettle, and John's cup, empty, on the coffee table. "Did you have tea this morning?" John nodded, puzzled. "With sugar? Out of the sugar bowl?" Nodded again. " _And you finished it?"_

"What have you done?"

"I think I'll be out today." He stood, took in the fact he was still in pyjamas, eyed the door, and considered it. Blast, he thought, there was a good reason to be dressed at all times. He should have known better. Quick getaways were occasionally good for the soul. Not to mention to prevent an unfortunate turn of events. "I should be back, oh..." he swallowed, "... maybe on Sunday."

John stood, too, eyeing both Sherlock and the kitchen while cutting off the angles of any possible escape through the flat. He didn't think Sherlock was nutter enough to go out the window. "What are you experimenting on?"

"Carapichea ipecacuanha."

" _What?"_

"And it's chemical bond properties in the presence of sucrose as a possible treatment for helicobacter pylori." He gestured to the slides. "Apparently the chemical bonding that occurs at body temperature in the presence of h. pylori..." He stopped as John took a step closer.

"Sherlock." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. Out with it.

"Well, apparently refined sugar hides all the taste of ipecac as well as facilitates it's dissolving when mixed with gastric hydrochloric acid." He spoke quickly, continuing, "It's for a _case_." As if that ever made anything outrageous permissible.

"I'm not even sure they make that anymore. It's not medically indicated for much of anything. I believe they pulled it off the shelves for a reason." When John was furious, his words were tight, as if restraining his jaw would restrain the fists from flying. "How much was in the sugar?"

"I made a reduction, like you did with the chicken marsala last week. It's amazing how concentrated it became..." John's murderous glare shut him up; perhaps, he realized, being scientifically brilliant should be well timed and specifically not within several hours of ingesting something with unpleasant side effects.

As if on cue, John's stomach rumbled. Sherlock at least had the good sense to look very concerned. John looked at his watch again, turned on his heel as he felt his stomach churn. With any luck, he'd be done vomiting by the time he had to go to work. And, he thought, crossing his fingers, he might have time to murder his flatmate in between. From within the bathroom, John heard rapid footsteps down and back up the hallway, and the door to the flat shut. As the first wave of emesis hit, he wondered how quickly a locksmith could completely Sherlock-proof the flat.

++

John had never actually prescribed ipecac, and after his personal encounter with it, he doubted he would ever subject anyone to it. His GI tract had to be completely empty. The shower, eventually, felt somewhat refreshing except that it wore him out, and he dressed and readied for work in a still empty flat. There was enough energy left to completely remove every bit of Sherlock's experiment. For good measure, he tossed every open food container, all the prepared slides, the sugar bowl out of principle, and both tea cups. He picked up Sherlock's written notes on the subject, too, hedged. Mercy was a beautiful thing, and he put the binder back on the table. Perhaps he could dredge up one more bout of... no, vomiting on a flatmate's science work was probably a bit not good. He took the large trash bag to the dumpster on his way to work.

Sarah, at the clinic, didn't pick up on John's pallor until he'd been there several hours, worked through his lunch break, and refused the cup of coffee that she brought him. He brushed off the situation, stating he might have had a touch of a GI bug this morning, but was feeling somewhat better now. Wordlessly, she left with the coffee only to return several minutes later with a bottle of water. No further words were exchanged, but clearly she was waiting for him to attempt rehydration. He took the bottle, unopened, and the chart of his next patient with him, and silently walked past her. Knocking on the door of the next patient, he pushed it open, effectively shutting her out, as he said, "Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Watson..." and continued on his afternoon tasks.

Sherlock was waiting at the clinic when his shift ended. John said goodbye to the receptionist, slung his pack over his shoulder, looked Sherlock right in the eye, and wordlessly stepped outside into the misty evening.

The walk to the tube was in silence, and uncomfortable, and John was actually grateful for the water Sarah'd given him. He was exhausted, queasy, worn out, and furious. Being at work for the bulk of the day was an effective distraction, but the object of his annoyance was now at his elbow. A word squeaked out of Sherlock's mouth on the tube, but John put up a hand, turned away.

Once inside the flat on Baker Street, he set his things down, hung his coat, and said, "Going to take a bath. Need to get in there first?"

It wasn't until the water in the bath was cooling when John decided his course of action. It made him feel slightly -- slightly -- better.

Sherlock was watching telly when he padded out to the living room in bare feet and pyjamas. "Feel better?"

John leveled a look at him.

"I'm sorry, you know."

"Yeah, well." John sat down, then, and opened the novel he'd been reading in the tub! where he'd left off. If nothing else, the bath had been relaxing after a rather decidedly lousy day.

"You forgot to shave."

"Yeah."

Sherlock slept on the couch that night.

++

The following day, Lestrade called with a case. It was a four, Sherlock decided after it took longer to arrive on scene than to solve it. On the way home, Sherlock suggested lunch at Angelo's. John shrugged, went along with it. Lunch passed in quiet, shallow conversation. They'd just returned to the flat when Lestrade called again, passing along a request that they both consider an out of town consult for a buddy of his. It would be a few hours travel by train, an overnight, probably a return the next day. Sherlock questioned John, who said benignly, "I have to work tomorrow. You go."

John was rather surprised when Sherlock agreed. And relieved.

Sarah commented the next day that John looked like he must have been feeling better, then looked closer and asked if he was growing a beard.

John touched his chin. "Oh, yeah, I was thinking about it."

There were a few text updates from his flatmate:

**Arrived in the country - seriously middle of nowhere. SH**

**Wish you were here - the hotel is boring. SH**

He left those two unanswered, went to bed early, and slept soundly.

John worked extra hours the following day, grateful, again, for the distraction. One of his patients, a long standing gentleman with a touch of heart failure, told him he liked the beard for a change and asked why he'd finally decided to grow it. He rubbed his chin again, noting the softness as it was growing in, and told the man, "Oh, just thought it was a good time to try something new."

By the time Sherlock returned home a day later than expected, he arrived to find John fixing dinner. John's back was to him, intentionally, as he approached. His arms slid around and he leaned in for a hello kiss on the back of John's neck. And John worked very hard at not reacting to Sherlock's ... abject horrified response to the facial hair. Inwardly, though, he was grinning widely.

"What on earth..."

"What, no hello kiss?" John turned around, working hard at maintaining the business as usual behavior. But oh, he wanted to smirk and then outright laugh at Sherlock's non-amused repulsion. Letting the spatula into the skillet, he turned, hands sliding up along Sherlock's head to pull him closer for a kiss. "Hope you're hungry. Be ready soon." He let a hand drift downward, skimming lightly to the top of a lean, muscled thigh in elegant trousers. "You'll need your energy for later."

Point. Game. Set. Match? Possible. As it worked out, John went to bed early, leaving Sherlock brooding on the couch, fingers together, eyes closed. He grinned to himself in the darkness. This would be a lesson that he would enjoy teaching.

++

Greg met them at a crime scene the following day, and stuttered over the details as he stared at John. Unable to receive the typical briefing Sherlock preferred, he flounced off in a great huff to find Anderson for the update and to check out the evidence. Greg was left standing with John, who was hiding his amusement not all that well, while Greg finally stammered, "Why?

John shrugged. "Time for things to change."

"Does Sherlock like it?" He asked the question as if he already knew there was no way the detective would like anything remotely close to facial hair on his partner.

John's eyes narrowed slightly, and he said succinctly, "I do not shave for Sherlock Holmes."

The crime scene beckoned, then, and John joined the onlookers at the edge of the street where the evidence lay: a jacket that had been discarded, along with one shoe, and a baseball hat. Sherlock was already eyeing the storm drain, and John could tell that he had heard, as anticipated and planned, every word John told Greg. His mobile rang, then. It was the clinic. Sarah told him that details had come together for John to attend the upcoming conference in a few days, that they'd discussed. He smiled, then, made a few arrangements mentally, and went to discuss retrieval of the bloody knife that Sherlock had located in the storm sewer.

Later that afternoon, at the morgue, Sherlock had strode into the exam room with Molly to be given access to the body. He had measurements of the knife blade as well as the shoe size to assist with gathering additional information. John and Molly stood at the doorway, watching him work. Molly caught him with a partial smile visible before he was able to hide it.

She crossed her arms as they stood there. "So your beard looks nice. I like it," she said, kindly, as if she could ever utter a cross word. Sherlock snorted as he lifted the arm of the body. "He doesn't like it, then?" she asked.

John shrugged. "I like it." His hand rubbed absently along his jaw, and Molly laughed as he offered his chin to her to feel. Sherlock was wide-eyed, watching. "And I do not shave for Sherlock Holmes."

The smirk on Sherlock's visage was almost comical, and John tried to school his own features. He was going to need to work harder at this. Hiding his expression, then, he nodded and asked, "You want coffee?"

"Black," Sherlock muttered as he let the arm fall back down. "There are no defense wounds here."

"Perhaps they were drugged, then, yeah?" John suggested, a bit casually, turning on his heel.

He returned with coffee for the three of them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. He'd expected John to continue this ridiculous passive-aggressive infantile behavior and ignore him. Molly recorded additional findings, and John leaned against the wall, drank his coffee, and speculated.

++

It was on the way home when Sherlock decided to ask how long John was going to keep up this ridiculous behavior. Initially, John acted indifferent. "I have no idea what you mean."

"Piss. Off. You do, too. _This_ ," he said, gesturing toward John's face, a disgusted look on his own.

"So you think it's ridiculous?" He kept silent at the obvious rhetorical question. "Is it also ridiculous to ask that experiments be kept out of the food, separate in the kitchen, in specific containers? Ridiculous to assume you would be sensible enough to keep potentially dangerous and unpleasant chemicals out of, oh, let's see, the _bloody fucking sugar bowl _, perhaps?" John allowed a small amount of emotion in his voice and body language. "I let it go entirely too long. No more. I've had enough, and I paid dearly for the right to put my foot down, if you recall."__

"I said I was sorry."

"I don't see that anything is particularly different in the flat. Yet."

"Your face is different, Particularly." A sneer crept into his tone, and John took offense.

"Maybe I like it."

"No you don't."

"I'm keeping it until you have a plan." He left unsaid exactly what he meant by plan, knowing that Sherlock knew what he meant and would - eventually, when he grew to hate the beard enough - take care of things.

There was a black car out front when they arrived back at 221B. Sherlock's dark mood turned even more sour, and he, oddly enough, turned on his heel and stalked off in the opposite direction. Recognizing his own mood as thriving slightly on confrontation, John entered the flat to find Mycroft inside.

"John," he intoned, with the typical slight tilt of the head in greeting.

"Nice to see you. I suppose. Unless you are bearing bad news." There was a file folder on the coffee table, and usually Mycroft didn't bother with a personal hand-off of case related information.

"Information about the current case he requested." He looked at John carefully. "Is he still throwing a temper tantrum about your facial hair?"

"You heard?" Even as John asked, he realized it a ridiculous question. Of course Mycroft heard. "You don't usually hand deliver unless it's highly classified."

"I wanted to see it in person." John made a face, gesturing with his hands and jutting his jaw out slightly, not caring a whit if it was childish.

John was pretty sure he also heard footsteps just outside the entry door. _Perfect_. Just what he'd been hoping for. And actually, that it was Mycroft just gift-wrapped the whole thing for him was an added perk.

"Having a 3 year old in a 35 year old body makes for a difficult partnership."

"He's worth it. He'll come around."

"Perhaps when you take a razor to your face again."

This time, John didn't even try to suppress the grin. "I do not shave for Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock's brother tipped his hat, took his umbrella, and exited the flat. Just outside the door, he spoke again, "Brother."

By the time Sherlock stormed into the flat, all huffy and stormy, John's expression was carefully neutral. "I'm leaving for a medical conference in the morning. Be back Friday evening." When Sherlock didn't respond, he continued, "Just thought you should know. Want to come along?"

At that, Sherlock squared off with him, silently, looked him full on in the eyes, glanced at his chin with as much disdain as he could manage, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door clicked.

++

John returned from the conference with a spring in his step. With a rather well-grown in nicely trimmed beard. And particularly horny. God, it had been forever since...

He had texted his flatmate with an approximate arrival time, but had no response, so he wasn't sure what to expect. Sherlock was home, seated in his easy chair, reading a complicated chemistry journal, and seemed much less irritated.

John opted not to press his luck by, well, without the pun, _rubbing his face in it_ , so he settled for a simple greeting and asked how things had been in London over the last few days.

The answer was rather non-descript, ostensibly harmless, and there was a charged current of energy raking its way between the two men. John thought perhaps a volt-meter would actually show some amperage in the room. His bag and jacket tucked away, he returned to the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked, then headed to the kitchen and stopped abruptly in his tracks. John glanced over to find Sherlock watching him. The kettle flipped on, but the water was nearly hot anyway. Rather considerate, John mused, and then he took a closer look.

"What on earth?" John found that there had been cabinetry changes since he'd last been in the room. The far end lone cabinet had been removed, and replaced with a mahogany red version. Inside, John found red containers, beakers, flasks, test tubes, all red. There was a red bin on the counter with tall enough sides, and inside that was various antibacterial and cleaning agents appropriate to biohazardous experimentation. A paper towel rack, also red, stood behind the bin. The cabinet door had a deflecto pocket inside with biohazard labels. John whistled low. "You've been busy." He opened the refrigerator to find a similar system, one shelf marked red and taped off with a red divider. There was even milk. "I'm impressed."

John fixed tea for them both, sat down at the table. Sherlock kept steady eyes on him until John felt just slightly uncomfortable. "Everything ok?" he asked with more ease than he felt.

"Sure. How was the conference?" Inane chatter never particularly suited Sherlock, and John gave him a few points for asking and remaining slightly focused as he answered in very abridged replies.

John sipped, Sherlock ignored his for the most part. "You stare like you're waiting for me to do a trick." He leaned closer, then, and allowed his frown to form, "You weren't expecting me to discover that in the kitchen and rush down the hall to shave, were you?" He rubbed his chin. "It's soft, feel?" John led Sherlock's hand to his jawline, rubbed. John made sure his lips parted over Sherlock's thumb, exhaling warmly over fingertips. "I take it you haven't changed your mind. I'll keep it on if you like it." John turned his hand, planted a kiss on Sherlock's palm, gently, let his tongue slide out. Victoriously, he noted a sharp intake of breath and dilating pupils.

Sherlock cleared his throat. John didn't have to run a hand down his chest, lingering at the belt, sliding firmly to his cock to know Sherlock was very aroused. The man practically radiated magnetism, and John was drawn in, iron to pole, positive to negative, fish to bait, moth to flame. "No, off is... Off's good."

"Want me to shave before, or after."

"Before." He answered so quickly that John couldn't help but snicker just a little. "I want to watch."

There was some urgency now, and John led the way down the hall, shucking his shirt en route. The bathroom had also been reorganized, straightened, neatened, and ready. Candles burned on the counter and small shelf. A strop razor, shaving cream, bowl, and towels awaited. When John hesitated, heartstrings had been tugged at, blast his wonderful flatmate. As John stood just inside the door, Sherlock pushed past, perched on the edge of the tub.

John set to business, working the shaving cream into a lather while the water ran hot. He softened his beard, every so often his eyes meeting Sherlock's in the mirror. Even shirtless, the room was warm - hot water or from two very aroused males, he wasn't sure the origin. Nor did it matter. The razor scraped, making coarse sounds along lines of his jaw as he worked. Jaw, throat done, and then upper lip followed. John rinsed his face one final time, and found Sherlock standing behind him, towel held out and he dried.

Their eyes met in the mirror again, candles flickering alongside. The towel fell from view, and they both watched the light play over John's chest as Sherlock stroked nipples to hardness and pectoral muscle clenched as John arched into Sherlock's firm touch. His cock pressed urgently into John's back, and his hands slid from chest to groin, undoing zipper and making short work of remaining clothing. John stepped out of trousers and pants, said softly, "Bed. Oh God, please, bed."

The linens were fresh, sheets turned down, light on from the corner softly glowing in welcome. "Pretty sure of yourself," John teased, and smiling lips came together, heated, Sherlock's hands continually touching, caressing, feeling John's jaw, face, throat, even upper lip as they tasted and nipped. Their backs were arching and then John spoke again. "You have entirely too many clothes on." Sherlock flung his arms in surrender and John worked buttons and zippers slowly until Sherlock swatted his hands and pulled. A button flew off, hit the nightstand, with the shirt landing somewhere behind them. "Much better," he murmured.

It was as if Sherlock had been long starved for physical touch, particularly the lower half of John's face, and he studied and caressed and rubbed, his touch becoming more firm and eventually more desperate and shaking. Their cocks ended up sandwiched between them, together, as when John made the slightest move as if to slide down to take Sherlock in his mouth, his efforts were gently thwarted. He opted not to force it, and before long, there was a sheen of sweat, and shaking muscles on both of them as they kissed, drawing long drawn out sighs of " _Oh my God._..", "I missed you," "God I'm so close", " _John_!", and finally, that shudder of completion followed by spurting warmth between them. When John finally caught his breath, leaning over Sherlock, his arms bent over him, he smiled when he realized Sherlock's hands were still on his face. His hand moved over Sherlock's, and their eyes met, warm, tender, sated. He was only minimally surprised at the degree of Sherlock's preparatory efforts, when Sherlock reached over, grabbed a flannel, took care of both of their abdomens, and flopped back into bed.

"Feel better?" John asked.

Sherlock's hand crept to his face once again, exploring the freshly shaved jawline, let it rest there. "Much," he answered.

++

John went out in the flat the next morning to find Sherlock at the computer. Sherlock's shirt and missing button were draped over John's easy chair. He grinned to himself behind a coolly delivered good morning to his flatmate. Apparently, Sherlock had discovered the thrill of conflict when resolution could be so satisfying.  If he wanted a bit of a challenge, well, John reasoned, he could certainly play along.  Suppressing a smile, he cleared his throat.  "What," he began with the hint of an edge, gesturing at the shirt and button on his chair, "the hell is _this?!"_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Gosh, these guys are fun. Some of these stories just rattle around in my head until they demand to come out digitally some day. Here it is!


End file.
